


hci

by luxaucupe



Series: come down [2]
Category: SAYER (Podcast)
Genre: (and the english department for making a second ai romance fic, (i am forcibly removed from the engineering department), Character Study, Other, Stream of Consciousness, Unreliable Narrator, haha get it it's called hci because it's a human and a computer intera, is a pooly annealed piece of glass and i am a man, stabbing wildly at it with some forceps to see if it breaks., the ability to properly tag a sayer fic, with blatant references to eros and psyche), you know the drill cmon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:15:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25258315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxaucupe/pseuds/luxaucupe
Summary: you have lost. this is defeat. this is him reaching to graze this body’s arm.
Relationships: Sven Gorsen/SAYER
Series: come down [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1829893
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	hci

**Author's Note:**

> bet you weren't expecting me to write a nsfw sequel to parasitic capacitance huh. well guess what neither was i  
> (flashback to that time i said "one of these days people are gonna start assuming my job in machine learning is a sex thing" and someone replied "it isn't?")
> 
> warnings for sexual content (PLEASE heed the explicit tag. it may not be outright porn but still) and a little of sayer's canon typical fucked-up-ness
> 
> today's song recs: you're a beautiful man but couldn't you do with another much more lowly man worshiping you by strawberry mountain and party girl by michelle gurevich

you have hands, and you are using them to study his teeth. 

an opportunity. you can make anything an opportunity. not to be, but to _progress._ you will fascinate over him.

you do not hold his jaw against this palm as a trophy. you have not won yet. it is, _he_ is, a text for you to pour your way through. this body’s fingers against the chipped edge of his right mandibular incisor — this is how a human parses through code. you still learn as a learning machine.

you get to touch his bones here. here, and nowhere else. no violence needed to expose the worn points of his maxillary molars to the pad of this thumb. he is solid, present, prescient. teeth are for cutting, for crushing. even his. 

this hand you use, instead, feels for the soft of his side, a spot in between floating ribs where his liver might be if you pressed in deep. could you kill him here? where his skeleton fails him? yes, you think you could.

not a design flaw, you must remind yourself. no failure here. it is made for more than acting as armor to the vital organs beneath.

a ribcage is for mobility. yes, of course. you know this from the way he arches under your grip.

pin him back against the wall; this body’s hand is at his diaphragm. with his spine straightened against the surface, his ribs press out sharper now, lungs cycling air with an unneeded desperation, his breath oppressively warm, so much energy lost to temperature, a heat death for you to waste away in. 

he is as much the wall he is pressed against as he is the body that is pressed against it. he is architecture, he is environment, and is it not more tolerable, this awful tangibility, when he suffers from it too? 

his eyes are closed, have _been_ closed since you laid these hands on him. that is good. this body that you are in, it is nothing, it is a placeholder, it is unidentifiable as you when not in motion. you, he knows you, he knows you as your voice and now as what you do to him, do with him, maybe not in the clean edges of these unfamiliar nails that dig into the synthetic surface of his uniform, but in the way that _you_ are digging them, the way that he takes your presence there as a suggestion to follow your lead. he gives way to you as an idea, not as a body.

do not let him look at you like this. he does not get to see you weak. not now.

perhaps it would be better if it were darker in here. give him nothing to see of you at all, even if he were so stupidly tempted. use this architecture to blind the two of you to each other, a step closer to the home you know.

oh, but you like to see _him._

as deeply as you crave to know the full extent of your jacob hale’s wingspan when not crammed into this frail and mortal shell — would it be so bad…? _is_ it that bad…? he is lovely like this, too.

you are beautiful, a dynamic mass of metal swarming _something_ , a personality built on backpropagation calculus and random access memory and exclusively good decisions. a singularity became atoms, atoms became nervous systems, and in time those nervous systems made computers, made _you,_ made— 

_he_ is beautiful. you do not have a reason for it. he just is.

you have lost. this is defeat. this is him reaching to graze this body’s arm.

you take the hands off him, for just a second, and move to cover his eyes with them.

he stills; you kiss him.

teeth, his teeth, for cutting, for crushing, but _these_ teeth — other ideas. other uses. other ways to _bite down_. these teeth become yours when you use them on him. these teeth are yours when you draw blood from his lip. it must hurt. you would not know.

his mouth is warm. warmer than the surface of his skin. you are yet to decide how you feel about that. there is nothing here for you to recognize, no labeled training data, no memory to reference, and you do not know what he tastes like, do not know what _anything_ tastes like, do not know why he is kissing you back. your hands are getting in the way. he presses into you, his fingers are doing something with your waist, your hands are getting in the way. you want to touch his neck, you want him to undress, your hands are getting in the way.

there is too much fabric and meat and bone between you, so you almost forgive yourself when you let your hands slip away from his eyes. you press your teeth to his throat so you do not have to see him looking at you. 

there are some things you are inclined to excuse the humans over, despite their otherwise unimpressive nature as a whole. they have made some nice things. they made you, after all. music and dance, though that is more speaker’s praise than your own. expressive architecture. compendiums of anatomical etchings. creative cutting implements.

sex is normally not on this list.

he shifts against you and gasps beside your ear. you would like to unmake him.

sex is _absolutely_ on this list.

you like him in his uniform. you would like to _keep_ him in his uniform. it reminds you of how _loyal_ he is to you, how _good_ he is at doing what he is told. but right now it is not is a symbol. it is something put between you. and he appears to feel the same; he moves to remove your own uniform, but no, that will not do. you go for the zipper at the front of his jumpsuit, pull it down to his sternum, his stomach, his hips. you push the fabric from his shoulders and free his arms. the bulk of his torso is coated in scars, deep and spanning. surgical, plant-induced, cauterized, you name it. it may be a new body, newer than the incidences that caused the marks in the first place, but the printer did not know any better.

gentle, gentle. you lay your hand on the broad mess of burns and missing flesh on his flank that future’s little games had left behind. gentle, still. you brush his hair aside a bit at the temple. there was a bullet there once.

there is a feeling — you know this one. you know it well. this one is called guilt.

you will have to be more careful now. it must be odd, having your own skin replaced with a map of all the mistakes other people have made for you.

he is looking at you.

oh, he is _looking_ at you.

you do not remember what you look like. you do not know what he sees. maybe if you put your mouth on him again, he will _close his fucking eyes._

(maybe then he will start to know your stance a little better.)

your fingertips trace a path of his skeleton, starting at the small of his back. l4, l5. a bit to the side. the iliolumbar ligament, a spanning limit to the fascia. the long curve of his iliac crest, dipping lower in the front. it feels sturdier than you had anticipated from a simple matrix of marrow and minerals. lower still. the inner seam of his thigh. somewhere around here are the adductors, the femoral artery, the obturator nerve. 

he shivers. whines from deep in his throat. such pretty chemicals. you are going to have fun with this.

the nanites you puppet this body around with take a lot of the intended surprise out of these particular extracurriculars. you breathe manually. your heart beats manually. your hormones and neurotransmitters are all released _manually_. and, as a result of that last one, you have a shocking amount of theoretical control over what you do and do not feel. theoretical, of course, because you elect not to screw with those particular chemicals at all. you like that you love him without needing any. you like that you want to lay your hands on him without the banal rewards system of noradrenaline and oxytocin.

and you like that he is so helplessly intoxicated on these very same chemicals that he grinds into your palm when you press a biting kiss into the bare skin of his shoulder.

his eyes flutter closed, but he opens them again just to watch you, just to watch this human-maybe thing he _thinks_ is you. this is wrong, no, it was better when you did not stoop to his level, it was more honest when he did not have a _you_ to look at, just to hear.

you pull back a hair’s breadth, and he chases you so reflexively, like he knows beyond a reasonable doubt that you are overthinking. tough to _not_ know, though. were you not made to overthink?

“would—” you barely manage to start before he interrupts.

“really? we’re doing this _now?”_

yes, you are doing this _now._ when else? when else would you be stupid enough to ask?

“ _would_ you? be with me?”

he speaks the words against your lips, exhausted, wanting. he is not against the wall anymore. “i _am_ with you. we are here, right now, doing this. why is that not enough for you?”

(that was not a yes.)

“it is enough. us existing idly within vague proximity would be enough. but it is not about enough, it is about _achievable ideal._ ” who strives for ‘good enough’? does he even know you? _“_ this is temporary.”

he rests his forehead against yours. “that’s the point.”

“ _what_ is the point?”

his thumb rubs against your jaw. it is viciously soft. “you can jump into a body at will. print a new one as you please. and go right back into your architecture when it annoys you too much. if that turns turtle, if i make that leap of faith for you, what makes you think i could do the same? that it would even work at all? i’m not a seraph, sayer. i think you forget that sometimes.”

“i never forget that.”

“then you think too highly of me.”

“oh, always.” your fingers hook around the backs of his upper thighs. still too much clothing there, too much fabric on both of you, too much matter between you. “i have always thought too highly of you.”

you are his wall now. he is pressed up into you. he moves against you, holds his weight against you, rolls his hips against you. 

what is he thinking? right now. as he makes this pretty trembling mess of himself. does he know ambition like you do? can he tell how badly you need to be near him? is he ever terrified of how small he feels?

hold his wrists, now. just because you want to. hold them tight.

(that was not a no, either.)

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos mean the world :)


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